Weapon of Choice

by Patricia Gussin

  “At the CDC,” Emma commented. “They only hire the brilliant ones. I’ve interviewed Madeleine Cox and know how demanding she is of her scientists.”

  “She sends her regards,” Stacy said, “but she had to stay on in Tampa, where we have teams trying to control an outbreak of serious infection.”

  “I’m glad Dr. Cox sent you, young lady. They told me you’d be here, and I know you grew up in Detroit. So you’ll be seated next to John Conyers and Rosa Parks. She works with him, you know.”

  Stacy was astounded that Emma knew where she came from and that she’d be privileged to sit at the same table as the brave woman who’d refused to move to the back of the bus. If only her mother were here. Lucy idolized Rosa.

  At that moment, a gong signaled guests to stroll from the cocktail party into the dining room. Stacy stepped back as three tall, tuxedo-clad men approached Emma.

  “Time to go inside, Mom,” one said.

  “Escorted to dinner by my three sons, now that’s a mother’s dream.” Emma gave Stacy a little wave as two of them offered her an arm and the third followed protectively.

  I wonder if I’ll ever have kids of my own. Stacy knew that Emma had had her first child when she was twenty-three and Stacy was already thirty-two.

  As an usher showed Stacy to her table toward the front of the enormous ballroom, she kept an eye out for Emma’s one bachelor son. But her fledgling hopes were dashed when Emma’s youngest son veered off to join an equally tall white woman.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

  SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 30

  “Time to suit up, pal.” Lonnie handed Charles the creased white jacket and baggy checkered pants, along with a white baseball cap with no logo. “I don’t like doin’ this one bit, but they have my daughter. Will Banks swore they’ll torture her, kill her, and dump her on my lawn. What happened to Russell Robertson doesn’t leave much doubt as to how far Banks will go. Hell, he’s got guys like us, active members of The Order, scattered all over the South. All he’s gotta do is put out the word, know what I mean?”

  Charles cringed. Yes, he did know. He accepted the bundle of clothing without a word and pulled the loose-fitting outfit over his clothes.

  “You saw the menu?” Collins asked. “Lobster and filet mignon, surf and turf, only the best for this group. I took a peek in the dining room—JFK’s son’s supposed to be here. Didn’t see him. Couldn’t believe all the white people out there. Now what’s the deal there? Shit, man, what if JFK Jr. eats dessert?”

  The Kennedy family’s civil rights stance had never endeared them to the Scarlett family. Charles thought of this year’s conversation around the Thanksgiving dinner table. The typical race-bashing talk. What makes whites feel that they had to kowtow, and on and on. Dad’s face had turned an angry shade of red when he fumed that even partners in his own firm were insisting that he had to appear more tolerant, kiss up to Atlanta’s black mayor. Charles couldn’t imagine his dad kissing up to anyone who wasn’t white.

  “You just keep your mouth shut,” Collins said as he opened the door leading to the kitchen. “I’ve got the profiteroles all ready. All you have to do is inject them. One at a time. On the tray. I was careful not to overfill them so the cream won’t leak onto the tray and contaminate the whole kitchen. I’ll keep the other kitchen dudes out of your way. The trays are all lined up ready to parade out in style, the way the dining room manager likes it. ‘Flashy elegant,’ is how he always puts it.”

  Charles thought about tomorrow. When he would be far away in a safe place, so secret that Will Banks had not even told him. As for the diners sitting out there, who’d be oohing and ahhing about the delicate profiteroles? By this time tomorrow night, their skin would be peeling off as the staphylococcus organisms penetrated ever deeper, destroying one organ after another. The staph would move fast and relentlessly, multiplying as they go. No antibiotic could stop them. The Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency, known as DARPA, had been worried about something just like this and had been determined to terminate the CDC program, citing the potential for bioterrorism. They were worried, Charles thought, about the crazies in the Middle East or the remnants of Communism, never even dreaming of the possibility of homegrown terror inflicted by The Order. But DARPA was too late. The Order was on the move. The Order would prevail. Charles Scarlett was leading the cause. Chas and Rosabelle Scarlett would be so proud.

  Charles followed Lonnie as they made their way into the large section of the kitchen dedicated to pastry preparation. All the walls were white, the machinery stainless steel, as were the mixing bowls and implements. Pretend you’re in your lab, Charles told himself.

  Charles found the trays of profiteroles all lined up as promised. Tasty-looking morsels of puff pastry filled with a creamy substance. “The chocolate drizzle?” he whispered to Lonnie. “When did you say that happens?”

  “Has to go on at the very last minute, so it’s still warm,” Lonnie responded in a low voice. “And don’t whisper. Other dudes will think it odd. Just keep your mouth shut. You can start right there.” Lonnie pointed to the farthest tray. “Just do your thing. I’ll casually hang back so nobody sneaks one. These things are so damn delicious. The staff’s always pilfering them.”

  Charles hadn’t eaten much for lunch and the aroma of the baked delicacies was overpowering as he shifted from foot to foot, anxious to complete his part of this massacre.

  “I’m worried about the timing,” Charles said, trying to keep his voice low while not wanting to attract attention by whispering to Lonnie. “These bacteria grow fast, and we don’t want an odd taste.” Charles assumed the bugs would be tasteless, but, of course, no one ever had ingested them. The meticulous safety precautions in the CDC labs had proved successful and so had the security systems. Until now.

  Charles saw Lonnie look at the big clock hanging on the white wall. Eight twenty eight. Then he checked the clipboard hanging on a cabinet door.

  “The schedule says eight thirty, but I need to wait for confirmation. They’re collecting the dinner plates. I’ll get word very soon that the first tables are ready for the dessert course. The trays go out two at a time. Fifteen plates on a tray.”

  Charles counted. Rows of twenty-five trays lined up on the counter closest to the door leading to the dining room. Plenty of room for him to inject the center of each. Pretty much as he’d visualized. Should work well as long as there was no one close enough to see what he was doing. Lonnie would be the barrier.

  “There’s always a few who’ll pass on dessert,” Lonnie said. “Though with my profiteroles, that’s rare. If a server has extras on a tray, they are to bring them back, leave them on the tray, and put down the tray over there.” He pointed to a cart with shelves that would hold several trays. “I’ll keep that cart next to me. I’ll watch it for pilfering. But I won’t be able to control the profiteroles as they are carried back from the dining room to the kitchen. Anyone who sneaks one will—”

  “Yes,” Charles said, not wanting to dwell on that particular possibility. He’d made it a point earlier to call Bank’s attention to this likely occurrence. Banks had shrugged. “Collateral damage, Chuckie,” he’d said. “Can’t be helped in war.”

  “You want me to start now?” Charles asked Lonnie, anxious to get the profiteroles injected and to get as far away from the Palace Hotel as possible.

  “I’ll take a look out there.” Lonnie left Charles’s side to peer out into the dining room.

  Charles had gawked at the room before the guests were seated. He’d been to formal banquets with his parents, but the lavish appointments at this affair amazed him. And all for a black woman. Hard to comprehend. His dad would be outraged to see how far off track America had veered. But, Dad would be so proud when he learned that his son, Charles Jr., was the instrument chosen to put America back on course. With that, Charles reached into his satchel, carefully, so gently, extracting the first of three test tubes. He already had unwrapped the syringes. Sterile technique mus
t be meticulous to protect him against even one errant microbe—but that was his job, and he’d always done it well. Would it be his job ever again? Would this be his last act as a microbiologist? No more time now to try to foresee his future.

  When Lonnie returned, he gave Charles the thumbs up, and Charles moved to the first tray. His back to the waiters and ancillary kitchen workers milling about, paying him no mind, he slipped on rubber gloves and worked quickly, injecting a tiny aliquot of the staph into each pastry center. The process took almost no time; he already had finished a whole tray of fifteen.

  “Next tray,” Lonnie said in a voice so low that Charles could hardly hear.

  Charles saw that Lonnie, too, wore rubber gloves as he expertly tipped a spoon, drizzling warm chocolate sauce over the injected profiteroles.

  They repeated the process for the next tray, and as Lonnie completed this final touch, he nodded for the server to pick up the trays for delivery to the dining room. As always, the first tray would go to the guest of honor’s table.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

  SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 30

  Victor’s head buzzed with the reality of his new, vaunted executive position and the notoriety that it had already attracted. But his heart, bruised by the reality that Matthew’s relationship with this Vern would take his son away, put him in a funk.

  He had arrived at the hospital in time for the seven o’clock news. With Matthew and Vern, he watched his appearance with Paul Parnell. Matthew had congratulated him, enthusiastically sharing his pride of accomplishment. Vern, however, didn’t comment. He seemed not to acknowledge the magnitude of Victor’s new position as lead researcher in the big pharmaceutical company. Apparently, Victor’s expertise didn’t impress Matthew’s boyfriend. Expertise now critical to stopping an epidemic in Tampa and, perhaps, about to spread elsewhere.

  Vern, as it turned out, was himself a researcher. He was an associate professor in the department of physiology at Stanford University in Palo Alto. Victor sensed that publicity like this didn’t impress him. Arrogant, Victor thought, like someone who was accustomed to notoriety and wealth. When Victor had enumerated the elements of his compensation package, Vern all but sneered.

  Victor understood why when Matthew later informed him that Vern’s father was an investment banker who had made millions in health care start-ups. Victor wondered if Vern’s old man knew that Vern was gay and was infected with HIV.

  Before Victor could phrase the question, Matthew cleared up the matter. Vern’s father had, in fact, become an AIDS activist in San Francisco. What could be more appropriate than for him to oversee medical care for Vern and Matthew as they faced a future with AIDS? Did this mean Victor would have no say in his own son’s care?

  Exhausted as he was from his exhilarating yet demanding day, Victor still tried to out wait the boyfriend and get some time alone with Matthew. But Vern made no move to leave. Victor’s plan was to delay until visiting hours ended, diplomatically suggest that Vern say goodnight, and then talk to Matthew about his discharge. Maybe when they talked alone, Matthew would agree after all to move to Philadelphia with his dad. On the way back from Keystone, Victor had concluded that prestige, money, and fame would not fully satisfy him. He needed to be close to his son, to compensate for all the years that they’d missed together. He felt compelled to be with Matthew.

  Barely hiding his agitation, Victor waited for the nine o’clock announcement that would end visiting hours, as Vern clung protectively, intimately, to Matthew. Soon the two of them talked only to each other, excluding Victor, marginalizing him.

  Victor began to wish he had not destroyed every trace of the staph he’d cultivated in his basement lab. All the official cultures had gone to the CDC. Would it be possible to get his hands on another culture? Once all the Tampa fuss blew over? In time to infect just one more person: Vern.

  The door to Matthew’s hospital room flew open and two men entered. One white. One black. Both wore suits.

  “FBI,” the white guy announced, extending a badge for Victor’s examination.

  The black agent, his hand on the large gun strapped to his waist, spoke clearly but in a normal voice. “Dr. Victor Worth, you are under arrest.”

  “What?” Matthew sat bolt upright in his bed, shaking off Vern’s protective hand. “That’s my father. He’s a well-respected scientist. He was just on the evening news. Officers, you’ve made a grave mistake.”

  Stunned, Victor could manage only a proud smile as his son came to his defense.

  “What’s all this about?” Vern asked, standing up to inspect the proffered badge.

  Pocketing his badge, the white agent produced handcuffs and approached Victor; his partner kept his hand on the gun, eyes roving from Vern and Matthew to Victor. “You’re coming with us,” he said, gesturing for Victor to show his wrists. “And you,” he said, pointing at Vern. “I don’t want any interference. Who are you? Let me see some identification.”

  “Why are you doing this?” Matthew asked, sitting upright, his eyes starting to tear.

  As Vern started to reach into his pocket, the second agent, the one with the gun, said, “Carefully, sir.”

  “I know who you are,” the agent said to Matthew. “We need to question you, too. We will be back. Right now, we have a warrant for Victor Worth. Interesting, what we found in your basement, Dr. Worth.”

  Victor’s heart plunged. He hadn’t taken the time to get rid of the broken shards of glass or to dispose of the autoclave. But with no live bacteria, so what? Big deal, so a microbiologist has outcast lab equipment in his basement.

  “We’re going to read you’re your rights, sir,” an agent said.

  “Not necessary,” Victor said, choking back panic. No Miranda warning. Not in front of his son.

  The agent read it anyway.

  Vern showed his driver’s license, standing stiffly, glancing at the door as if he might bolt.

  “Vern Lutz. Have to run your name.”

  “Matthew, what’s going on?” Vern asked. “Are you in trouble?”

  “Keep Matthew out of this,” Victor said, his voice sounding old and weak. Had they found active staph growth in the basement?

  “Officers, please, Dr. Worth is my father. He’s a famous scientist. He was just on the news. He’s going to produce a new antibiotic that will be effective in resistant infections. Like the one in Tampa.”

  “That so?” an agent said, securing Victor’s wrists with cuffs, pulling them painfully tight. “I suggest you watch tomorrow’s news for an update on your old man.”

  “Matthew, what did he mean by that?” Vern asked.

  Victor twisted to face Matthew. He wanted to say something. But what?

  “I don’t know,” Matthew said, his eyes wide, staring at Victor, pleading for him to say something.

  “Let’s go, Worth,” an agent said, elbowing Victor toward the door.

  On his way out the door, Victor heard Vern say, “I told you to not to get involved with that loser. But no, you didn’t listen.”

  What could the Feds prove? Nothing.

  Victor would not say one word until he had an attorney. Would Keystone Pharma provide one?

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

  SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 30

  Luckily, in that simple kiss on Trey’s lips, the bacterial load had not been nearly as high as if Natalie had received an injection of the staph. As grateful as Laura was for Victor Worth’s role in discovering ticokellin, Laura was certain in her own mind that Worth had been the vector of death in the ICU. While the pulmonary technician disassembled the respirator, Laura sat in the chair by her daughter’s bedside. Natalie still would be on oxygen, but her lungs were clearing and her blood gases good enough for her to come off the machine. Not out of the woods, Laura knew, but definitely getting better.

  Natalie’s face was averted. Could she have an inkling of what was to come? Laura was sure that she and Tim had not discussed Trey’s death, yet somehow Natalie seemed to know.


  “Okay, Natalie,” the technician said, hands gently turning her head forward so her neck was aligned. “This tube will come out. It won’t hurt, but it’ll be uncomfortable. You might gag a little so I’m going to prop you up just a bit. Okay?”

  A weak nod of her head, as Natalie listlessly watched the man deflate the rim holding the tube in place.

  “Here goes,” he said, slipping the plastic tube out of her throat. “Your throat will be sore, and your voice will be hoarse for a while.” He helped ease her back against her pillow. “Doing okay?”

  Again a weak nod of her head.

  Laura looked to the hospital cot across the room. Tim was a sound sleeper. You had to be to survive as a pediatric heart surgeon. Tim would not be able to help her through this.

  Laura took a deep breath.

  “Mom?” Natalie’s voice was low and scratchy. “My throat does hurt. Especially when I talk. But—”

  “Let me get you some Tylenol,” Laura said. “The nurse left a dose for you. Liquid so it won’t hurt your throat.”

  Natalie stared at Laura as she poured the red liquid into a dosing cup and brought it to her.

  “Why is everyone wearing that?”

  The isolation gear that looked like a space suit, worn by all hospital personnel.

  “We have a terrible infection going on in the hospital. That’s why you were so sick. But you got a special antibiotic and you’re going to be okay.”

  Laura marveled at the effectiveness of ticokellin and mentally thanked Stacy for making it available to Natalie and the others. But she still worried about Natalie getting the rare but fatal side effect, aplastic anemia. Worry later, she told herself; be here, in the moment, for Natalie.

  “Is everybody going to be okay?” Natalie rasped.

  “No, not everybody got the antibiotic in time, sweetie.”

  Laura leaned in close to Natalie. Should she go ahead, or wait for Natalie to ask?

  “Natalie, honey, about Trey—”